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Swamp Cooking
You never could tell with cooking gator. As with most swamp cooking, it was all about getting the right flavors to come out but keeping the wrong ones from becoming too strong, and maybe you could argue that this was true in any kind of cooking, but there was seldom quite the same risk of someone sampling your stew and remarking, “Hm, not bad, but I detect a distinct hint of swamp ooze in there, and it’s overpowering the onions.” So, you always made sure to clean the meat especially well and use fresh, flavorful ingredients--especially spices--to get the desired result. So far, Kent had never quite been satisfied with his results, but then, he hadn’t been living with the swamp folk for very long, either. The place sure was unique. Compared to it, Alabama (and even Kent’s dim, distant childhood memories of Ontario--the one in Canada) seem rather foreign. Europe was certainly nothing like this, nor was China or Japan. Kent had planned to visit Africa next, but chance had led him back stateside, and he’d landed himself in Louisiana. There were rumors that members of The Public Trust once operated from New Orleans, leading Kent to seek out possible mentors and guidance there--but he had come up empty. So, rather than waste the opportunity, he got to know some locals and started to learn what he could about the area’s cultures. The language, the food, the customs--everything fit the term creole, a melding of disparate sources into a vibrant melange of life. The pot bubbled, and Kent sprinkled the parsley in. Onions, celery, peppers, tomatoes--the stew was coming right along. The meat would need plenty of time to soften. The dish was just like the region--it was a bunch of items that didn’t exactly look like they belonged together, but they changed each other when cooked up. The stew made it all come together. Sure, it wasn’t an original observation, but that didn’t make it any less true. Plus, it made it all the more interesting to be that ingredient that never made it into the mix. Kent had flown all over the world since leaving home, discovering his power of flight. He wanted to help people, and he wanted to know as much about the world as he could. So, he roamed, but he never stayed anywhere long. He didn’t stay long enough to leave a lasting change, even if he carried a little bit of everyplace he went with him. He put the lid on the pot and sat back on his heels, smirking a little at his own thoughts. It wasn’t that he felt sorry for himself or anything--his life was a lot like a faerie tale in some ways. Grow up thinking things are fine, get surprised by how bad they can go, and then escape thanks to some unexplained magic. Sure, they might say that Powers were scientific or whatever--that made sense. A miracle could come from science, and magic could be perfectly natural stuff as far as Kent was concerned. So yeah, he felt lucky. What would Granny say? Probably, it would be something like, “If your hen lays a gold egg, don’t complain if the next one don’t hatch diamonds.” He did enjoy inventing the “Granny” sayings. It gave him something to tell people about himself when they asked about his life. Nobody ever doubted the truth or wisdom of a cryptic saying from a wise ol’ Southern grandmother. And, and if Kent were the type to complain, that might be where he would have something to say. He never knew his real grandmothers, even if one of them actually had lived in Alabama. His parents, well, what was the point of dwelling on lost causes and bad memories? You don’t worry about ugly feathers once the chicken’s plucked--that sounded like another likely Granny saying. He’d have to remember it for later use. Sometimes, he felt guilty for lying to everyone he met, but at the same time, it seemed better to him that way. People enjoyed folksy quirkiness and a country bumpkin sort of smile. They didn’t ask too many questions since they assumed you’d have nothing important to say that wouldn’t go on a Hallmark card, and it kept him from forming any real, lasting attachments. It was safer that way, at least until he could find the mentor he’d been seeking. From the smell, the stew would be done soon. Kent wrapped the remnants of the ingredients up and tucked them away in his satchel for composting. He’d move on tonight, get well out of town before he Torched up and flew off. Hard to say where he might go next--maybe back to Europe. He’d meant to see London for a while, and any big city meant some chance of meeting someone in the Hero business. Yeah, London would be good. Kent stood up and turned to go and call the others. The stew was always best shared, and he would enjoy the chance to be social and friendly before he slipped back out of these people’s lives for good. ---- Copyright Notice Textual and creative content on these pages is the property of its respective creators. Specific images are generally utilized under "fair use" guidelines; the images themselves are not owned by the contributors to this wiki unless otherwise stated, but the characters they depict (and their distinctive likenesses, apart from photographs of actual persons) are similarly the sole property of their creators. Category:Fiction Category:WiP